


Protector

by pettifogger



Series: Cover Me [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Begging, Body Worship, Bottom Din Djarin, By that I mean very light, Competence Kink, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, F/M, Hair-pulling, Hurt/Comfort, I am sorry but also not sorry at all, Light Masochism, Once again very light, Praise Kink, Protective Din Djarin, Sharing a Bed, They find a bed, don't look at me, there's a lot going on here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:01:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28842786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettifogger/pseuds/pettifogger
Summary: “Din, you’re bleeding.”His response is the sound of metal hitting the floor and the brush of hot air against your cheek as he breathes you in.“Are you serious? You’rehurt.”“‘m aware,” he murmurs, and you feel the scratch of his stubble on your neck and the smooth slide of his tongue on your skin.“Din…” Your tone is uncertain, your brows furrowed. “Do you—do you like being hurt?”Or: Tatooine is a dangerous place, but you and Din make the best of it.Part 4 ofCover Me(can be read as a standalone):Part 1→Part 2→Part 3→Part 4(you’re here!) →Part 5
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You, The Mandalorian/Reader
Series: Cover Me [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057175
Comments: 31
Kudos: 277





	Protector

It’s dark and dusty underneath the control module of the carbonite freezer. There’s grease smeared across your forehead and down your arms. Your biceps ache from holding up a wrench over your head for ten minutes, but you’re determined to fix this damn thing. Somehow, between your repair efforts to the carbonite system months ago and now, the Mandalorian has managed to break it. Again.

Now you’re sweaty and dirty and laying flat on your back on the floor because there’s no other way to get under the module and loosen the panel you need to access the pipe junction. There’s no way Din could fix this himself. How would he even fit under here? How in the galaxy did the Mandalorian keep this piece of junk running without a mechanic conveniently around all the time?

You’re more than a convenient mechanic, though. You know that. 

You’ve finally isolated the break and fixed it when you hear the gate slide open on the deck below. That’s the Mandalorian, of course—he’s been out for some twelve hours seeking intel on his next bounty, and you’re grateful you got this fixed before he brings another body on board. _Especially_ if it’s breathing. You drop the wrench with a clank and rub your face with your sleeve, undoubtedly smearing more grease across your brow. 

You call down to him. “Do you have a body down there?” You wince as your voice echoes back at you.

No response. 

“Mando?” 

In fairness, he might not have heard you. You are basically underneath a cabinet, after all. Sliding yourself out from underneath the module, you listen for the telltale sounds of a squabbling bounty or a corpse being dragged across the floor. 

Still nothing. Interesting. 

You drop down the ladder onto the lower deck. Out the open gate, you see the Mandalorian walking up the gangplank—suspiciously slowly. He’s empty-handed, to your relief, but his canted gait and the slight delay of his movements is concerning. As he crosses the threshold, the artificial light of the deck reveals blood on his armor. Your heart stops for a moment.

“ _Dank farrik._ ” You cross the room in half a second. The Mandalorian hesitates before sagging into your arms. Thank the Maker you’re strong; otherwise he’d take you both to the ground, putting all his weight on you like this. “Are you hurt?”

He shakes his head and gestures vaguely down at the blood on his armor. “Not mine.” Now that he’s close to you, though, you can hear his breathing ragged under his helmet.

“Are you sure?”

He nods. “Just—” he sucks down another ragged breath “—just tired from running.”

_Running?_ You ignore his protestations and start to assess him anyway. It’s a relief to see no major wounds except for a cut on his sleeve. The cut isn’t deep but it’s bleeding a fair amount. 

“Din, sit down.” You try to pull him in the direction of a crate on the floor, but he’s frozen in place. Just looking down at you through that unreadable helmet. 

There’s bacta somewhere in the hold; if you can get him to sit down, stay still, and let you take care of it, he’ll be fine in short order. 

“Come on.” You try to move him again. “Let me take care of you.” 

You have your arm around his back and under his arms, letting him lean into you as you try to pull him towards the crate. Without warning, he suddenly shifts. He turns you so that you’re backed against the hull of the ship, right next to the open gate. He’s so close to you and you’re very aware of the grease stains on your face and the fact that you _definitely_ smell like sweat and metal. 

His visor is pitch black and impassive as he looks down at you. “Close your eyes.”

You know what he’s up to, and there’s no _fucking_ way. He’s injured and covered and blood and dirt. You’re equally gross, not to mention sore from laying on the durasteel deck for the better part of the afternoon. What you need right now is for the Mandalorian to sit down, shut up, and let you take care of him. Not whatever this is. It doesn’t matter if the blood on his beskar isn’t his. You need to make sure he’s alright before you do anything in this arena.

“Are you serious?”

“Close them.”

Obediently, you close your eyes, but you stick your chin out and plant your hands on his chest at the same time. This is not going any further. You push back on him. 

“Din, you’re hurt.”

His response is the sound of metal hitting the floor and the brush of hot air against your cheek as he breathes you in.

“Are you serious? You’re _hurt.”_

“‘m aware,” he murmurs, and you feel the scratch of his stubble on your neck and the smooth slide of his tongue on your skin. 

This is ridiculous. This is _ridiculous_. The gate isn’t even closed. Anyone could walk up to the _Crest_ at any moment and find the two of you. Half of your mind is deeply concerned by the notion of a stranger seeing a helmetless, wounded Din; the other half of your mind goes wild at the thought of being caught with him like this. 

The practical part wins. You grab blindly at his arms, trying to push him off. When your right hand lands on his left bicep, he grunts.

“Oh, kriff,” you swear. The fabric of his undershirt is torn under your fingers and the blood on your hand is definitely his. _Not my blood,_ he said. Liar. 

“Sorry.” You move your hand away from the cut. “Oh, shit. Are you alright?”

Din doesn’t say anything. In fact, he just grunts again, but this time it sounds—different. Not a pained groan, not an _ouch, I’m hurt, stop touching me there_ kind of groan. It’s a strangled, desperate sort of noise. 

You move your hand up, away from the bleeding cut, but still near the site of the wound. You push back on him again and, like a reflex, he moans.

Just like that, this situation has gotten more confusing than it already was. 

“Din…” Your tone is uncertain, your brows furrowed. “Do you—do you like being hurt?” 

He just makes another hungry noise and steps closer to you, pressing the length of his body against yours and pushing your back against the cold durasteel. You know that’s not beskar you feel pressed against your lower belly. His hair tickles you as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, like he’s seeking your warmth and your scent and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get it. 

You murmur his name again and hate yourself for how breathy it sounds. He takes it as an invitation and grinds his hips against you. Even through layers of clothing and armor, it makes your toes curl in your boots. Your self-restraint is hanging by a thread. You’re weighing the choice to stop this or keep going in your head when a shout rings out from somewhere outside the ship.

Instantly, Din freezes. Then he ducks down to find his helmet while you wait until he gives you the okay to open your eyes. 

“Safe?” 

His voice is modulated and slightly metallic again when he responds. “Yeah.” 

You blink, eyes adjusting to the light of the hold. The Mandalorian is now flat against the wall with you, his back to the durasteel. Is he—is he hiding? If he is, he’s not doing a very good job of it. If you weren’t so confused, and vaguely alarmed, it would be a funny sight. He throws his arm across your chest and flattens you against the wall with him, which sobers you up fast.

The voice from outside is louder the second time. This time, you realize it’s not shouting in Basic—it’s guttural and the words are unfamiliar, but it still rings a bell in the back of your mind.

Oh, shit. Tusken Raiders. You _are_ on Tatooine, after all. 

Another shout from outside, even closer. 

“ _Dank farrik_.” Din grabs the blaster off his belt with one hand and slaps the button next to the gate with the other. As the gate starts to close, the voice outside gets louder—and closer. Din waves at you, and you back away from the gate, further into the hull but still flat against the hull.

He turns and shouts something back in that guttural, rough language, and the voice outside responds. With his back still against the hull, he’s in the clear, and the gate is nearly shut, but your heart is still pounding in your chest. Earlier, it was from confusion and arousal, but now it’s adrenaline coursing through your veins.

The gate slams shut and you sigh in relief. Din stays still for a second, listening to the voice outside retreat, and then sinks onto the floor. He draws his knees towards his chest and rests his arms on them. 

“K-kriffing _Tuskens_ ,” he swears. Exhaustion and irritation are evident in his voice. “Thought we were on good terms.”

“I take it your recon didn’t go well, then?” You ask, as you rifle through boxes on the floor in search of the ship’s medkit. 

“No.” Din grunts when you kneel beside him and pull the fabric away from his wound.

“Is this the worst of it?”

He nods. Beskar clanks on durasteel as he leans his head back against the wall. 

“We have plenty of bacta packets,” you muse, rifling through the medkit. “Are you going back out soon?”

Another nod. That’s typical Din—curt and impatient to get back to work. 

“Why?” You smile at him as you rip open the packet of bacta. “Don’t want to spend quality time on Tatooine?” 

His helmet turns to face you. As always, it’s difficult to read him. What face is he making under there? You hope it’s a smile, even if you have a feeling that would be out of character. You don’t even know what his face looks like, much less what he would look like smiling at you. It would be nice to touch his face right now. If you could, you’d brush his hair off his forehead and run your thumb across his cheekbone. Instead, you just tighten your fingers around the pack of gel in your hand. 

“No.” He drops his arm on the floor and lets you apply bacta to the cut. “I’ll head out in an hour. Gotta check on the kid.”

“Did you get the intel you needed from the raiders before they, y’know...” you say, gesturing at his wound, “...stabbed you?” 

He huffs out a laugh. “Yeah.” 

You wait for him to tell you what he learned or when he’ll be back from the hunt, but an answer never comes. That’s also typical Din: being mysterious at all times, for no apparent reason. 

“I’m going to go to Mos Eisley tomorrow.” You keep your hands busy, binding up the cut to keep the bacta in place. “To trade the junk we talked about. I’ll pick up something for the kid to eat while I’m there. Do you know what he might like? Not frogs, I don’t think I can find those here.”

Din hums. It’s a soft, familiar sound that makes you feel warm all over. “Anything sweet,” he says, and pauses before saying, “and blue.”

You’re not sure if that’s a joke, so you just nod. 

It’s quiet in the hold without a Tusken raider trying to break down the gate. Presumably, whatever Din shouted at him—and possibly the threat of a blaster pointed at him—scared him off. The _Crest_ is far enough from town that it’s just the three of you out in the desert: Din, his son, you. Your little trio in a big, quiet ship. It’s already become familiar to you. Your hands linger on the Mandalorian’s arm, playing with the loose strings of his torn sleeve before pulling away.

“Looks good,” you say, nodding at the bandages. “Just—try not to move it too much. You’re lucky it’s not your shooting arm.” 

Din’s looking down at the cut. Now that you think about it, he was watching you the whole time you bandaged his arm. Silently, but steadily. You think back to the noise he made when you pressed down on the wound, not ten minutes ago. That strangled, desperate moan, unhindered by the helmet. 

You feel your face get hot and turn away before Din notices. That information will be stored in the back of your head for a later time. Not now. Instead, you just offer him a hand to pull him to his feet. 

☆

The Mandalorian doesn’t particularly want to be on Tatooine. It’s alright, as planets go. It has some redeeming features. He actually knows people here, people he might call friends if he were the kind of person to call people _friends_. Briefly, when you said you were going to Mos Eisley, he considered visiting Peli Motto at her garage. Or taking a speeder out into the desert to see how Vanth is doing in Freetown, if the truce with the Tuskens is holding. 

But Din is working, and, considering his run-in with the raiders earlier, he decides against it. That kind of incident is why he doesn’t particularly enjoy taking pucks for bounties on Tatooine. 

He’s also angry, which is the other reason he’s not going out of his way for unnecessarily socialization. He’s pissed at himself for getting into a scuffle with the Tusken raiders, because that’s going to make his hunt more difficult, and he’s pissed that he didn’t realize he was being tailed on his way back to the _Crest_.

It’s a _desert._ It’s sunny, mostly flat, with not a cloud or shadow to be seen. How did he miss someone following him? It turned out to be fine—mostly a misunderstanding, once he could make out what the Tusken was shouting—but the Mandalorian is still preoccupied with the idea that he brought danger back to the ship. He risked the safety of you and his son because he was careless. 

In fairness, you and the kid can defend yourselves. He hasn’t forgotten the kid using his powers to fling a vibroblade in a smuggler’s skull, and he’s seen you with a blaster. He feels protective, though, in a way he never did before. Being protective over the kid is a well-established instinct at this point, but you—that’s new. You can handle yourself, but Din is preoccupied with the guilt of knowing that he put you in danger because he didn’t pay enough attention to his surroundings. 

That's a new feeling, the mix of guilt and protectiveness and worry. As he traipses across the desert towards the given coordinates, he mulls over it. This time, he keeps an eye out for rogue raiders along the way. 

☆

In your bag, you have: a necklace made of an unknown silvery metal; a comlink with holoprojector capacity, which took two days to fix; a fancy knife; and two previously broken blasters, which you’ve repaired but are too small for Din’s hands and too big for yours. All of the above you found in the cargo hold of the _Crest_ , taken or fallen off bodies of quarries past. You don’t like being idle, so you gave yourself the job of finding junk in the hold that might be of value with some polish and a quick fix. 

The Mandalorian hunts bounties; you hunt for valuable junk like a scavenger. Back to your roots. 

When you showed the Mandalorian everything you’d fixed, he seemed impressed. You’d asked if he would mind you looking around in the hold for things to make projects out of, and he said it was fine, but he didn’t think there was anything of value in there. But here you were, walking to Mos Eisley marketplace with goods worth at least a few dozen credits stashed in your bag.

The coarseweave bag, that is. The one you used to always keep packed with your worldly possessions, ready to leave at any moment. Now all of your things are stashed on the _Crest_ , spread out across the rooms where you spend your time. Your clothes are folded in a spare box by your bedroll in the hold. Your brush is by the sink in the tiny bathroom. Your blaster is stored in the armory alongside Din’s weapons collection when it’s not on your belt. 

You don’t have your life condensed into a single bag anymore. Instead of carrying around everything you own, now you carry things to trade so you can buy sweets for the Mandalorian’s kid. This is all new to you. It’s nice.

What’s also surprisingly nice: Tatooine. You haven’t been back since you left months ago, and it feels like a lifetime has passed since then. You’re oddly happy to be back. Nothing changes on Tatooine, even as different crime lords install themselves in different towns and alliances shift. It’s an ancient place, and the shifting sands and binary sunsets will always be there, no matter the comings and goings of people like you. There’s something reassuring about its constancy.

The sand is hot under your boots as you cross the desert. The _Crest_ isn’t docked too far from town, but the hike is long enough that you’re starting to feel unpleasantly warm. You’re also tired, which doesn’t help. It was just you and the kid on the ship last night, and the kid absolutely refused to go to sleep. His antics were cute, but you needed him to go to sleep before you could go to bed, and now you’re running on low energy while he gets to nap the day away in his little floating orb.

You can never really resent him, though. He’s nestled his way into your heart and he’s not going anywhere. Even when he’s keeping you awake half the night with his wizard baby shenanigans, all it takes is the twitch of one of his big ears or the widening of those dark eyes and you forgive him instantly. It should be a crime to be that cute, frankly. He could get away with murder like that.

You keep walking and thinking and ignoring the sand sneaking into your shoes and the sun beating down on your neck. 

Living on the _Crest_ has taught you a lot about the kid, but it’s taught you a lot about Din, too. It’s odd, when you think about it. You felt like you knew him so well after the week you spent stranded on Maldo Kreis, but as soon as you accepted his offer to stay—“for a while,” you haven’t forgotten your stipulation—you realized there’s so many things you didn’t know about him.

One: he sleeps in his armor. All the time. You knew he would sleep in it when other people were around, but you and the child aren’t exactly other people, are you? Regardless, he keeps it on all the time except when he’s in the ‘fresher. You learned this when you started monologuing about your time on Trask and how you nearly turned a Mon Calamari coworker into seafood with an errant blaster shot, only to realize not only was Din not listening to you—he was dead asleep. Just sitting there, in the captain’s chair, asleep.

Honestly, you weren’t even mad. You just started to wonder how many times you’ve been bothered by his silence when he was really just passed out under his helmet.

Two: he can cook. Kind of. As best he can, considering the _Crest_ ’s limited amenities. You can’t cook for shit, so you’re impressed. On the second or third night you were on the ship, the Mandalorian found you working in the hold and offered you soup. That he _made_. With his _own hands._ You must’ve looked surprised, sitting there staring into a bowl of soup like it contained the answers to the universe. He just tilted his helmet at you, considered you for a moment, and walked away. 

And, finally, three: he’s resolute about the whole ‘fucking in a bed’ thing. You were hoping that was just chivalry for show, but he’s dead serious. That doesn’t mean you’ve kept your hands off each other; it just means you always want _more_. 

It reached a point where you decided to bring it up. The _Crest_ was docked on a forested planet whose name you couldn’t remember. The kid was playing around in the grove outside, enjoying the air before taking off again. You sat next to the Mandalorian on the open gangplank, eating berries you picked and watching the kid chase butterflies. 

The Mandalorian’s helmet was on, but you could swear he was watching you. 

“Sleep in my bed,” he had told you.

“Stars, no,” you’d replied.

“Why?”

“It’s _uncomfortable_.”

“I’ve never noticed.” 

“Because you sleep in a suit of armor. _Everything_ is uncomfortable.”

He was quiet for a moment and the sense that he was watching you intensified. 

You smiled at him, then. “Do you like the idea of me sleeping in your bed?” 

He grunted. It was like he was trying to be non-committal but failing miserably at it. The noise was dismissive but his body language said he was _very_ interested.

“What if I told you I sleep without pants?”

Sharply, his helmet turned to face you.

“You like that?” You teased him, leaning in just a little to snag a berry from the box between you. “You want to walk past the alcove and know I’m in your bed half-naked?”

“Yes.” His voice was rough, like it was grating out of his throat.

“Too bad.” You popped the berry into your mouth. Even through the helmet, you could feel his gaze following the motion as you lick purple juice off your thumb. “It’s uncomfortable. You can sleep with me on the floor, though. I’ll even wear the blindfold, if you like. So you don’t have to, you know…” You gesture at his helmet and go back to licking berry juice off your hand. 

His hand flashed out towards you. “You,” he’d said, drawing the word out as he traced your berry-stained lips with a gloved thumb, “are a _tease_.” 

You didn’t say anything. You just let him stay there, fingers on your lips, daring him to go further. He didn’t, and you went right back to eating berries and watching the kid play. 

That night, you both happened to be going to bed at the same time. You caught the Mandalorian as he was heading to his awful metal cot, and he didn’t question it as you led him to the hold with his hand in yours. When you tugged him down to lay with you on your bedroll, he went easily. He was so warm as you laid down next to him, maneuvering so your back was against his broad chest. His lack of reaction was concerning at first; you couldn’t tell if he liked this or not. Then he said your name in that low voice and tugged you closer with an arm around your waist. 

The small movement sent a shiver through your body. Not to mention the sound of your name spoken like _that_. You hoped he might do more, just as you’d hoped in the grove, but he just held you like that until you gave up and drifted off to sleep. He was still holding you when you woke up the next morning. 

Some nights are like that, now. Sometimes he lays a big hand on your belly and slides it down to tease you over your underwear, working you until you’re moaning his name and writhing around in his arms. He’s relentless, then. He just keeps going, holding you close to him, his face buried in the crook of your neck while you come apart for him. 

Occasionally he lets you return the favor, but more often than not it seems like he makes you come just because he wants to, not because he expects anything in return.

In short: you’re better rested than you can ever remember before, but he always leaves you wanting more. 

While your thoughts are on the _Crest_ , your feet carry you across the desert to Mos Eisley. You’re so lost in your head that you arrive without realizing how long you’ve been walking. The low adobe walls of the town rise up in front of you and the sounds of a bustling trade hub greet your ears. You shoulder your bag and get ready to start trading.

☆

The hunt is not particularly pleasant. The Mandalorian is deep into the deserts of Tatooine, looking for a Mythrol bail jumper. He should be easy to find. The bastard is _blue_. The desert is _orange_. According to color theory, this should be the easiest hunt of the Mandalorian’s career. But all he’s seen so far is clusters of small footprints, signalling something is in the area, if not the bounty. The signs of life validate his decision to walk rather than take a more conspicuous form of transport, even though going on foot feels archaic compared to a speeder bike.

The Mandalorian keeps traipsing across the sand. His arm has healed from the injury the day before, thanks to bacta, but he’s still sore. Presently, his armor has heated to a temperature that would probably burn bare skin. And there’s sand between the plates, which he knows he’ll have to deal with when he gets back to the _Crest_. 

So many things stand between him and getting back to the ship. There are a variety of things he’s looking forward to upon his return. In no particular order: the ‘fresher. The kid, who will undoubtedly want Din to hold him, even though he’ll be covered in sand. And, of course, you. 

Briefly, he’d entertained the notion of bringing you with him. He’d considered landing the ship closer to Freetown to drop in on Cobb Vanth with you at his side or joining you on your trip to Mos Eisley. He’d never had that urge before, but the thought of walking with you, his hand on the small of your back, or sitting with you in a cantina with his arm behind you—those ideas made him _burn_. He’s grateful for the helmet, then, because this new possessiveness makes him feel confused and a bit uncomfortable and he doesn’t want you to notice the way it makes him flush. He’s just—he’s never thought about someone like that before. The Mandalorian isn’t a proud man, so this desire to show you off is new. He hadn’t decided if he should bother feeling guilty about it or not. 

He was really considering bringing you with him on some short trip unrelated to the hunt until the Tusken followed him back to the ship. That ordeal put a stop to the entire line of thinking. Being a Mandalorian puts a target on his back, and the target is transferable. If he’s in the line of fire, so is anyone associated with him. If he marked you as his in public as a self-indulgent show of masculine pride and you got hurt because of it, he’d never forgive himself.

Ahead, a flat-topped ridge of stone emerges from the desert. It’s far away, but the Mandalorian can make out a cluster of blurry, dark shapes at the foot of it. Surely, that’s where his directions are leading. He grits his teeth and keeps walking.

This is another new problem: when he starts thinking about you, he can’t stop. He spent the night under a cliff face last night, and he never used to mind rough nights on the hunt, but now he knows there’s an alternative. If he weren’t in the desert using his cloak as a blanket, he’d be with you, holding you and syncing his breath with yours until he eases into sleep. Now, every night he spends without you feels like a night wasted.

_Okay_ , you’d said. _For a while._

He doesn’t know how long _for a while_ means, and, if he’s honest with himself, he’s not sure he wants to ask. Instead, he just steals every moment he can with you. And every one of those moments drives him _crazy_. 

He’s stuck on the memory of the previous day, when he stumbled up the gangplank and pinned you against the wall. Why had he done that? What possessed him to corner you like that, when all you were doing was trying to help him with his wounds? And why the _fuck_ did he moan when you pressed down on the wound on his arm? 

That one he really can’t figure out. It’s not as if the pain felt good; quite the opposite, actually, it hurt rather badly. But the way you touched him so gently, so _carefully_ , and how quickly his body reacted to your touch—it was intoxicating. Like a drug. Like his brain went fuzzy and he acted without thinking and suddenly his helmet was on the floor and he was rutting against you like an animal. He imagines you touching him like that in a real bed, climbing on top of him and holding him down as best you can, taking control. You’d be so pretty riding him, so _radiant_ , so _powerful_. And if you got lost in it and left bruises on his neck or scratched his chest or… 

The Mandalorian shakes his head sharply. _No_. He _cannot_ think about that while he’s hunting. He’ll get himself killed like that, fantasizing about you while seeking out criminals in a desert populated by creatures who want him dead. What a way for a Mandalorian to go. 

Instead, he grits his teeth and takes a deep breath, as if that will make the memory of yesterday disappear. 

He’s crossed a considerable amount of sand in the time he spent thinking about you. The ridge of rock emerging from the desert is much closer now, with the dark figures still milling around its base. The Mandalorian drops down to his stomach on the sloping curve of a dune. Ahead of him, the moving shapes are clearer than before. He can now distinguish a taller figure from a crowd of much smaller figures, all of which are moving about rapidly.

_Kriff. Jawas._

It seems that the bounty—he’s assuming that’s the bounty, how many blue-skinned humanoids are there in the deserts of Tatooine?—tried to run from town, only to get caught by a horde of Jawas. That explains the clusters of small footsteps he’d seen along his way. If the Mandalorian snipes the Mythrol from afar, it’s possible that the Jawas will scatter and leave him with the body. It’s also possible that they’ll turn on him, though, and he hasn’t forgotten the painful shock he received from them on an earlier hunt.

The Mandalorian shifts, pulling his rifle from the holster across his back. He’ll take the chance. Even if the Jawas decide today is their lucky day and charge him, there’s plenty of space between the ridge and his vantage point. It’ll be easy to pick them off one by one before they can get close. With expert movements, the Mandalorian switches the rifle to the distance setting and squares it against his shoulder. It’s second nature; it takes less than a second for him to line up the perfect shot. 

Through the sight of his rifle, the Mandalorian can see the Mythrol backed against the stone ridge. The burnt orange color of the stone behind him makes his blue skin look fluorescent. Even from this far away, the whites of his eyes are visible. The Mythrol isn’t afraid of the Mandalorian; he doesn’t know he’s been tailed from town all the way out here. No, he’s looking fearfully down at the horde of red-eyed, brown-robed creatures milling about his ankles. 

Kriff, the Mandalorian hates Jawas. Tiny, troublesome bastards. He adjusts the rifle so the stock is braced against his shoulder. A single shot will take down the Mythrol. He doesn’t want to miss and give the bounty a chance to run or the Jawas a head start. 

He takes a slow, deep breath, deliberately dropping his heart rate and stabilizing his hands. The bounty is square in the middle of his sight.

He pulls the trigger. The rifle jumps back into his shoulder. In the distance, the bolt strikes true and the Mythrol crumples to the ground right where he stands. 

Even from far away, the Mandalorian can hear the panicked chatter of the Jawas. First they converge around the fallen figure, then they wheel around. Is he imagining it, or can he see their glowing red eyes from here? _Dank farrik_ —they’ve chosen the second option. Their eyes glint as they start towards him. He didn’t want this to be any messier than it had to be, but it doesn’t look like he has a choice. Maybe if he picks off a few, the others will scatter.

The stock of the rifle is hot against his shoulder as he lines it up again. One by one, he fires, and he doesn’t miss a single shot.

☆

Whichever crime lord is currently running Mos Eisley is doing a good job of it. You hate to admit it, but it’s true. The town is doing better than your last visit; the merchants are flush with credits, and you had no trouble trading the goods you brought from the ship. 

After trading away the last item—the elegant knife of unknown origins—you slip the credits into your bag. It’s a fair amount. You had offered to split the profits with the Mandalorian, of course, because you found the stuff on his ship, but he just shook his head. You tried to argue, but he pointed out that he would’ve thrown all of it away had you not gone through the piles of junk and fixed up what you could. And, he said, sounding vaguely guilty, he never actually paid you for helping him repair the _Razor Crest_ after the incident on Maldo Kreis. 

You’d forgotten about that. He’s right, so you don’t feel guilty about keeping the credits. The fact that you’re going to spend some of it on his son helps, too. 

Towards the far end of the market is a bakery stall that sends sweet smells wafting through the streets. Much to your surprise, they offer something that fits the Mandalorian’s odd description of “sweet and blue”: turquoise-colored cookies that _definitely_ look like something the kid would like. The cookies join the credits in your bag, and there’s still time to stop in the cantina for a drink before you return back to the ship. 

Chalmun’s Cantina looks exactly like it did when you left it months ago. It’s an odd feeling, retracing your footsteps in a place you didn’t expect to return to. You sit at a stool in front of the bar where you served dozens of customers and order yourself a drink and a glass of water. 

The cantina buzzes with life around you, though your thoughts are on the _Crest_. The child is still asleep and you haven’t been gone long, but you’re itching to return. The idea of the kid waking up to an empty ship makes you sad. He’s smart enough to know he wasn’t abandoned—he’s not a _pet_ , after all—but you don’t like the idea of him waking up alone and not knowing when you or his father will return. Plus, the Mandalorian could be back any time now, and you want to hear about his hunt while he cleans his armor and you prepare the ship for takeoff. 

Funny, how you’ve formed these rituals. It’s become your new normal, living life alongside the Mandalorian, working together and fighting together and missing him when you’re apart. When you think about how quickly you’ve slipped into this new life, and how deeply you enjoy it, it actually terrifies you. You sip your drink and try to think of less profound things. 

Such as: will tonight be one of those times when neither you nor Din has work to do, when you can steal him away to your bedroll? That would be nice. 

An odd noise from the corner of the room snaps you out of your daze. You’ve been staring off into the distance, tracing your finger around the rim of your glass like some moonstruck fool. Hopefully, no one noticed your daydreaming; regardless, you snatch your hand away from the glass and brush your hair out of your face and try to regain a semblance of composure. Mercifully, it seems that the chatter from across the room has called any stray attention away from you. The proprietor of the cantina is standing in the doorway, hands on his hips, looking—down? At the ground? That’s odd. 

Leaning back in your chair gives you the right angle to see the disturbance. In the doorway, several brown-robed little creatures gesture wildly at the proprietor and chatter away in a language that’s definitely not Basic. Jawas. Of course. They _are_ native to Tatooine, after all. You’ve only seen them from afar, because they’re not exactly the type to wander into town and prop themselves up at the bar and order a drink. 

The Mandalorian hates them for reasons he has not revealed, but you think they’re kind of cute. 

It’s free entertainment, watching the barkeep argue with furry creatures the size of small children. By the time the Jawas finally lose the argument and waddle off into the street, you’ve finished your drink. You leave a tip on the counter and shoulder your bag, ready for the hike back to the ship.

The suns of Tatooine are low in the sky as you head out of town. Certainly, the Mandalorian has finished his hunt right now. Secretly, you’re hoping he’s already taken care of the bounty; you don’t relish the thought of helping him haul around a body after your hike through the desert. He usually deals with those things on his own, anyway. He’s never said it, but you had a feeling he tries to keep the kid and you as far away from his work as possible. 

You’re hoping you’ll return to find the kid just waking up from his day-long nap and the Mandalorian back in one piece. That’s all you can ask for, really. 

You’ve just crossed through the walls of Mos Eisley when you see the same horde of Jawas that had been milling about the doorway to the cantina. They’re huddled by the gate like a pack of ominous toddlers. It’s an odd enough sight to make you stop for a second, just staring at them.

Then one of them turns and looks at you. 

That’s—weird. Considering they don’t speak Basic, you’re not entirely sure how to respond. You settle on a quick, friendly nod. 

The Jawa turns back to his group and their chatter gets louder. Then they _all_ turn and face you.

Now that’s _really_ weird. You give them an awkward little wave, avoiding their glowing red eyes. They are a bit creepy, aren’t they? You’re starting to understand why the Mandalorian isn’t a fan. 

They start advancing towards you, and you’re torn between the instinct to laugh and to run. Din didn’t tell you they were _dangerous_ , did he? You try and remember what you’ve heard of Jawas. Meanwhile, you start to back away, very aware that anyone standing near the Mos Eisley gate can see you being intimidated by a pack of child-sized creatures in ill-fitting robes.

The one that looked at you first seems to be the leader. Out of nowhere, he produces a tiny blaster. 

_What the fuck?_

He barks something at you in high-pitched Jawaese. While you might not be able to understand what he’s saying, you can tell he’s angry.

Your hand ghosts over your belt, where your blaster should be. _Kriff_. It’s on the ship. You raise your hands over your head slowly. This is _absurd_. How are you going to explain that you got mugged by a pack of Jawas? 

The lead one advances, his blaster still pointed at you. He’s still talking as if you understand. When he starts to get close, you drop the bag on your shoulder and kick it in his direction.

“There.” You nod at it, hands held over your head. “Take it. I don’t care.”

He stares at it for a long second, uncomprehending. Your mind races. Are Jawas really this dangerous? From what you’ve heard of them, they’re scavengers, not thieves. You’ve been told to guard your ship around them, not your wallet. Were it not for the blaster, you’d just kick the kriffing ankle-biters in the face and run. There’s no way they can keep up with you on those tiny legs. 

The Jawa’s red eyes glow as he looks from the bag back up to you. He barks something at the horde behind him, as if confirming something. You’re so focused on the leader that you don’t see one of them produce a stun gun out of its robes. 

By the time you notice, it’s too late. You curse and turn to run, but the stupid creature is faster. Something immaterial but forceful strikes your back, and you fall face-first into the sand as electricity courses through your body.

☆

Something is wrong when the Mandalorian returns to the _Crest._ It’s not immediately evident as he walks up the gangplank. He’s more preoccupied with the limp Mythrol he’s dragging behind him, undoubtedly dripping blood everywhere that he’ll have to clean up later. The Mandalorian is greeted at the gate by the child, who waddles towards him, peers curiously at the body, and then smiles up at his father. The Mandalorian stoops to pat the kid on the head before nudging him out of the way.

He starts to haul the quarry towards the carbonite system. The kid follows, his tiny feet making a pitter-patter sound on the durasteel. 

There’s no sign of you, though. The Mandalorian is used to you greeting him with a shout before emerging from somewhere deep in the belly of the ship, usually covered in grease or dust, and always smiling. The fact that you aren’t here, and that the child is running around unsupervised, is not good. 

It doesn’t take long to deal with everything on the ship. The quarry is very dead, so it’s no trouble hauling him into carbonite. There’s food left over from the day before to give the kid. All the while, the Mandalorian worries. How long have you been gone? You said you would go to the market and come back with something for the kid; you wouldn’t stay away long if you knew he would wake up alone. You don’t like to leave him alone for any longer than you have to.

Briefly, the Mandalorian considers waiting it out. He doesn’t want to be overbearing. He imagines stalking into town like some kind of angel of death in beskar, only to find you chatting away with some merchant and having a good day. You might’ve just lost track of time. There’s no reason to be dramatic about it.

Then again, it wouldn’t hurt to check. Outside the viewport, the twin suns are setting. Now the Mandalorian has the added worry of you trying to cross the desert in the dark when he knows full well that Tusken raiders and Jawas are roaming around. 

That’s it. He’s not going to wait. 

☆

Alright, perhaps it was a _bit_ dramatic to land the _Crest_ just outside the walls of Mos Eisley, but the Mandalorian doesn’t care. Sand is still settling as he walks down the viewport, kid in the crook of his arm. The wind kicked up by the landing of the ship makes his cape swirl behind him. 

Alright, it’s more than a bit dramatic. 

The Mandalorian starts towards the gate into town when something hits his helmet from behind. _Hard._ He wheels around and is greeted by five feet of anger and curly hair. 

“When I let her go with you, I thought you would be more careful!” 

The Mandalorian instinctively rubs the back of his helmet, where it seems that Peli Motto has thrown a rock at him. A fucking _rock_. 

“Sending her to town when you know packs of Jawas are roving about! Is there a brain in that bucket?”

Peli’s anger stuns him into silence, but he finally processes her words enough to respond. “What?”

“Your girl,” Peli grouses. “You should know better than to travel alone on this planet. She should know better, too.” 

The Mandalorian’s heart starts to hammer against his ribs. His free hand curls into a fist at his side. “Is she okay?” 

“Yes.” The fact that Peli rolls her eyes as she says it makes him feel marginally better. If something had gone terribly wrong, she wouldn’t be dragging this out just to annoy him. “No thanks to you. She’s at the hangar, sleeping off the shock those furry bastards gave her.”

“Take me there.” 

He _knew_ something was wrong. He should’ve left earlier. He should’ve dropped the Mythrol on the floor and flown to Mos Eisley as soon as he realized you weren’t back. Peli said you’re okay, but “okay” could mean a lot of things. 

Peli crosses her arms. “Only if you let me carry the kid.”

“ _Fine_.” 

As they walk, Peli explains what happened. She’s not a very good storyteller. She keeps distracting herself with invectives at the Mandalorian for his alleged carelessness and terms of endearment for the child in her arms. From what he can gather from her rambling explanation, this is what occurred at Mos Eisley:

You had just left town with a bag of credits (and a packet of blue cookies, Peli adds). Apparently, the Jawas recognized you as a member of the Mandalorian’s crew—a distinction that makes Din uncomfortable, considering how much more you are than just a crewmate—and attacked. Peli heard a commotion while working outside Hangar 3-5 and wandered out, just in time to see you take a shock from a stun gun right to your back. Peli fought off the Jawas, some of whom were trying to drag you away and some of whom were trying to steal blue cookies from your bag. Peli fought them off (though she didn’t manage to save the cookies, she laments). When she checked on you, Peli was relieved to see that you had passed out but were otherwise uninjured. She dragged you to her garage, where you’ve been resting for the past few hours.

They arrive at the hangar just as Peli finishes her story. Din tries to shove past her into the door of the garage, but she blocks his path.

“Listen to me,” she insists. “You think I’m full of shit? I’m serious, Mando. She’s one of the good ones. I don’t want to see her get hurt because she’s mooning after you.”

Again, Din is thankful for the helmet, because his face flushes red at Peli’s statement. Is that what she thinks he’s doing with you? Dragging you across the galaxy, playing with you because he knows how you feel about him? _Toying_ with you? He grits his teeth. It angers him that Peli would think that of him. Then again, he’s never shown signs of sentiment before.

The child babbles in Peli’s arms. Well, except for him.

Peli is relentless. “You have to look out for her, you hear me? Don’t make me make you promise.”

“I hear you,” the Mandalorian grits out. He _really_ needs her to get out of the way. “If you give me back the credits from her bag, I’ll promise whatever you want.”

Peli scoffs, ss if she’s forgotten that she mentioned the credits. The Mandalorian just gives her a cold look through the visor. Finally, she sighs and moves out of the doorway. She gestures at a coarseweave bag on a nearby table, then at a closed door at the back of the room. 

“Credits are there. Your girl’s in there.” 

When the Mandalorian starts for the door, Peli stops him again. “Stars above, Mando. Let her sleep. She’s _fine_. Sit down.”

☆

Your head hurts when you finally wake up. It feels like a blurrg sat on your entire body; your arms are so damn heavy when you try to rub your eyes. Beneath you is a lumpy, unfamiliar mattress, and you’re under sheets that definitely aren’t yours. Nothing becomes more familiar when you finally manage to blink your vision into focus. You’re in a brightly-lit room with an off-white ceiling that smells vaguely of grease and metal. You’re definitely not laying in the desert where you fell, but you’re not on the _Crest_ , either. You try to sit up, but the blurrg-on-your-lungs feeling returns. 

A groan tears out of your chest as you flop back down. In the distance, footsteps approach, followed by squeaky hinges and grouchy muttering.

You blink again and Peli Motto swims into focus. A halo of wild curls frames her face as she peers down at you. 

“You’re alive.”

You try to talk and cough instead. “Yeah,” you manage. “Think so.”

“Good,” Peli says. She looks you up and down as if sizing up a piece of machinery. “No injuries that I can see.”

“Then why do I feel like I’ve been crushed by a blurrg?”

“That would be the Jawa stun gun,” Peli says pragmatically, like that’s a normal thing to say. “Took a bolt straight to the back. You’ll be fine. I saved your bag for you, by the way. Not the cookies, though. Little bastards chowed down before I had a chance to grab ‘em.”

This is too much information to process at once and Peli is talking far too loud. The mention of the cookies grabs your attention, though. 

Oh, shit. The child. You have no idea how long you’ve been asleep. How long has the kid been alone on the ship? _Shit_. You shove yourself into a sitting position, ignoring the protest of your stiff muscles. Peli watches you like the dead have risen. 

“The kid,” you mutter, half-attempting to explain while you look around for your shoes. Where are your kriffing boots? “I need to get back to the ship. The kid—I left him by himself. _Shit_.”

Peli rolls her eyes and plants her hands on your shoulders, forces you to sit back on the bed. 

“The kid,” she says, “is busy levitating everything in my kitchen and making a mess of the place. I sent his dad into town to get him something to eat. Thought it might be a distraction for him.”

You’re not sure if she means a distraction for the child or for Din, but it doesn’t matter. She said what you needed to hear: the kid is okay. Din knows where you are. They’re both safe. You take a deep breath and sag back against the wall. 

Sitting up has helped, actually. Your head has stopped spinning and you feel less like you’ve been run over. Sleeping in a real bed does wonders, doesn’t it? You could really go for some water right now. You say as much to Peli, and she offers an arm to help you walk from the bedroom to the kitchen. 

Eventually, after you down three glasses of water, Peli realizes that you’re not going to pass out on her again and heads into the shop. You’re left alone with the kid, who’s in great humor after his long nap yesterday. 

“Hey, little guy.” You hold out your hands, and he toddles from his spot on top of the table straight into your arms. Just the weight of him against your chest makes you feel better. He’s cute, of course, but he has the added benefit of being a living, breathing heating pad. His tiny body radiates heat into you. 

He grasps at the fabric of your shirt with his little three-fingered hands, pulling himself up until he’s face to face with you.

“Hi.” You poke his nose. “Sorry for leaving you behind yesterday. I didn’t mean to do that.” 

He blinks slowly, deliberately, as if he understands. Hm. That’s new. Then he reaches out a small hand and lays it on your forehead. 

You frown and give him a look. “Excuse me, mister—” 

A warm feeling radiates from his hand, freezing you in place. It starts where his fingers lay, right between your eyes, and melts down your body. It’s like ice and fire all at once, spreading through your veins and into every spidery web of nerves. It’s like you’ve been submerged in the most intense bacta in the galaxy; you can actually feel your body knitting itself back together. 

The kid blinks and it’s over. He rubs one of his big eyes and coos, sounding pleased, if a bit tired.

“What was _that,_ kiddo?”

You feel _good_. Better than you’ve felt in a long while. You’re so busy staring at the kid in surprise that you miss the sound of squeaking hinges behind you.

“He does that.”

The sound of the Mandalorian’s voice sends a shiver down your spine. It’s kind of embarrassing, the way you react so immediately to his low, rumbly tone. Turning in your chair, you look up at him. 

“Hi.”

He says nothing as he crosses the room and drops a bag on the table. The child loses all focus on you and focuses on the bag. He crawls across the table and burbles happily when he finds food inside. It’s cute, and you look up at the Mandalorian, half-expecting to see some sign of his amusement. Instead, you’re greeted by his visor looking down at you.

All at once, you feel a bit shy. 

“He only does that to people he cares about,” Din says.

Both of you look at the kid. He’s presently stuffing his face with a cookie—bright pink this time, not blue—completely oblivious to the attention turned to him.

What do you say to that? _Thanks, kid, I’m glad you’ve accepted me as one of your designated adults. I would literally die for you, so I’m glad you’re willing to return the favor._

You settle for a simple “oh.” 

Peli reappears in the doorway before you can figure out what else to say. She catches sight of the Mandalorian and frowns. 

“Finally.”

“I wasn’t gone long.” His voice is flat. 

“Long enough. You’ve just about overstayed your welcome, Mando.” She looks over at the kid. “Not him, though. Or her,” she adds, glancing at you. “You’re lucky your traveling companions are cute. You can stay here one more night— _one_ , you hear me?—just so I know she’s not going to die.”

“I’m right here, you know.” You frown. “And I’m not going to die.”

“Remember what I told you, shiny.” Peli’s like a sandcrawler, her words flattening anything in their path. “You mess up like that again and you’re not welcome here.” 

“Was I ever welcome here?” Din’s tone is laden with sarcasm.

Peli huffs and throws up her hands. She mutters something that sounds like _impossible_ as she heads back out the door. 

☆

Long periods of silence are par for the course aboard the _Razor Crest,_ but Din is quieter than usual when he returns to Hangar 3-5. He insists that you stay with the kid in the hangar while he prepares the ship for takeoff the next morning. It’s ridiculous, he knows that. The kid healed you; you’re fine. You could help out, if only Din would let you.

But guilt twists in his stomach every time he looks at you, so he just keeps looking away. He imagines you lying wounded and limp in the desert as the electricity of a stun gun courses through your body. In danger and in pain, because of him. 

It’s his fault. He knows it is. There’s no way the Jawas’ attack on you was unrelated to the massacre he inflicted on the Jawas in the desert. They must have seen you come from the Crest and decided to hurt you as revenge for what he did to their kin. If Peli hadn’t come along, they might’ve done worse than stun you.

Din’s in an impossible situation. On one hand, it’s not his fault; he had to kill the Jawas because it was necessary to his mission, and he had no way of knowing you would encounter their kin in Mos Eisley. On the other hand, of _course_ it’s his fault. Tatooine is a dangerous place, and anyone could have seen you walk from the _Crest_ to Mos Eisley. Even if it wasn’t the Jawas, anyone else with a bone to pick with the Mandalorian could’ve chosen to take it out on you. 

You don’t even seem to notice the turmoil raging in Din’s head. In the kitchen, you talk with the kid, holding food above his head and trying to get him to use his powers to take it from you. He hears you offer to pay Peli Motto for lodging or to help her out today to earn your keep. When he hears your voice approach, he ducks back up into the hold of the _Crest_ like a coward. 

The Mandalorian is not a coward, but he doesn't know if he can have this conversation yet. _I'm sorry my job almost got you killed?_ That’s hardly a good way to apologize. _Twice in one day?_ Even worse. 

He curls his hands into fists. Then he uncurls them, slowly, deliberately, and forces himself to breathe. When he needs a clear head while hunting, this is what he does. Surely, he can figure this out too.

☆

It’s quiet in Hangar 3-5 at night. The quietness is made more awkward by Din’s silence. Without the chatter of Peli and the child, the only noise in the hangar is the distant hum from the direction of Mos Eisley. In the spare bedroom, where Peli has granted you permission to stay the night, there’s no noise but the hum of machines whirring in the adjacent garage. It’s dark, too. The sky is blue-black through the windows, lit by stars and light bleeding over the adobe walls of the city.

You’re sitting on the edge of the lumpy mattress, kicking your feet against the bed frame. Din is leaning in the doorway. Rather awkwardly, you think. He insisted on following you here, ostensibly to make sure you’re okay, even though you both know you’re better than alright. The warmth of the kid’s healing is still coursing through your veins, and you’re looking forward to spending the night in a real bed for the first time in weeks. 

A _real_ _bed_. That’s important.

Starlight shines through the transparisteel of the windows and dances across Din’s armor. Beskar is pretty like that, but you can’t help but think you’d rather see it on the floor.

“If you close the blinds,” you say, fiddling nervously with the sheets under your hand, “it’ll be dark in here.”

“Yeah?”

You’re surprised to hear a note of teasing in the Mandalorian’s voice.

“Yeah.”

He still doesn’t move.

“Or…” You can’t make yourself look at him, not yet. “We could, y’know…” You gesture vaguely towards your face and close your eyes. “...yeah.”

“Yeah.” His voice is low and warm as he finally takes a step closer to you. You follow the motion with your eyes, watching as he reaches into his belt. There’s a long strip of dark fabric stashed in one of the pockets. He draws it out slowly. Immediately, you recognize it: it’s identical to the one you carry with you, probably even torn from the same shirt. 

Your face burns with the realization that he keeps a blindfold on his person for this purpose. In his _belt_. Alongside his ammunition and his credits and all of the things he uses to hunt and kill. It’s as if the blindfold is just as important to him as the tools he needs to survive. Your toes curl in your boots. 

Before he can hand you the blindfold, you stop him with a hand on his chest. “First, I need to apologize.”

He tilts his head. “For?”

“Well, you know, abandoning your son on an empty ship and getting mugged by Jawas. We should be offworld by now.”

Din doesn’t say anything, but he moves to sit beside you. The mattress dips under his weight.

“Listen, I really am sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” You reach for his hand, and he stares down blankly as you slide off his glove and rub your thumb on his bare palm. “Are you angry with me?”

“No.” It’s a curt response, but he doesn’t sound mad. He sounds confused, more than anything else. 

“Then why are you being so damn quiet today?”

“That’s my default setting.”

Is it just you, or do you detect a hint of sarcasm in his voice? The fact that he’s up for wry comments is a good sign. You bump him with your shoulder and immediately regret it, because he doesn’t budge and his pauldron practically stabs your arm. 

He’s quiet for a long moment, just looking down at your hand resting in his. “I put you in danger,” he says, finally.

“What?” 

“The Jawas came after you because I killed their kin in the desert. They identified you as—as…” He stutters, a sign that he’s struggling to find the right words. It means there’s real emotion in whatever he’s trying to say. “They knew you’re with me. So they attacked you.”

Oh. That makes more sense. You’ve been trying to puzzle together why Jawas would try to steal from a random, scruffy-looking passerby, but Din’s explanation makes the pieces fall into place. They easily could have seen you leaving the _Crest_ and followed you around town. Suddenly, you remember the incident at the cantina, where the Jawas were trying to shove their way into the room while you were drinking. You should’ve known something was off then. 

“And the raider, before.” Din says, his tone bitter. “I put you in danger.”

He sounds so angry with himself. It’s frustrating. You’re not mad at him; quite the contrary, you still feel guilty for leaving the kid on the ship and not carrying your blaster. You should’ve known better. That’s not Din’s fault. 

And, selfishly, you don’t really care who apologizes to who, as long as you get this out of the way. This shouldn’t be a bad night. You’re alone with Din, sitting on a real bed, with no kid to disturb you. This should be a very _good_ night. 

“Din…” The right words are hard to find, so you settle on sarcasm. “You know I was a smuggler, right? You haven’t forgotten that part?”

He snorts.

“I’m serious. Stop feeling so guilty. I was the one who left my blaster on the ship. That was dumb. And if you weren’t putting me in danger, I’d be putting _myself_ in danger. It’s what I do.”

“Not a very good habit.”

“You’re a fucking bounty hunter, Din. You’re one to talk.”

Din huffs and you smile. Is that a laugh? Did you get a laugh out of the Mandalorian? You elbow him, sticking him right in the ribs where there’s no beskar covering his side.

“Now take that fucking armor off and stop being so gloomy.” You flop back on the bed. His gaze burns into you as you reach for the blindfold, still dangling loose in his hand. “And lay down with me.” 

☆

When you said _lay down with me_ , you didn’t mean _to sleep_. But sleep seems to be on Din’s mind, considering the way he’s holding you. His broad chest is warm against your back, his strong arm wrapped around your waist. It’s nice, of course, but it’s also the way he holds you when he’s about to pass the fuck out for ten hours, and that’s _not_ what you want to be doing tonight. You haven’t forgotten all the things he said he wanted to do with you when you finally found an actual bed. 

And here you are, as if the galaxy granted your wish in the form of one lumpy mattress. And all it cost was getting shocked by a pack of Jawas. 

You wriggle around in his arms, not subtle at all. Disappointingly, there’s no sign that your close proximity is doing as much for him as it’s doing for you.

Briefly, you consider giving it up and going to sleep. But your desire for him, which always simmers at a low level regardless of where you are and how close he is, is burning irresistibly hot. The big hand on your stomach doesn’t help; it just reminds you of all the times he’s held you like this with his hand under your clothing, making you come. 

Fuck it. 

“Din?” 

Your voice is quiet in the blue darkness.

He makes a noise of acknowledgment. 

“This is—uh. This is a real bed.”

Again, he just grunts. Maker above, for being as smart as he is, sometimes the Mandalorian is _dense._

“Din,” you repeat, rolling over in his arms. The blindfold is mildly irritating; you wish you could look him in the eyes as you repeat yourself. “ _This is a real bed_.”

Just like that, he realizes what you mean. His whole body stiffens. His hand curls around your waist, fingers digging into the soft curve of your skin. “Yeah,” he says, slowly. “It is.” 

You reach blindly for his face, and he grabs your wrist to guide your hand to his cheek. His lower lip is dry and soft as you stroke your thumb over it, shortly followed by the gentle, chaste press of your lips to his. 

His breath warms your face when you pull away. When you curl your hand around the back of his neck, you can feel his pulse pounding. 

“What did you say you’d do when we found a real bed?”

His voice is low and dangerous. “A lot of things.”

“Remind me.”

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he hitches your leg up around his hip and pulls you close to him. Judging by the way you feel him half-hard against your stomach, thoughts of sleeping are far from his mind. 

“Does that tell you?” His voice is rough and dangerous.

“I don’t know,” you tease. Your mouth finds his again, and he moves his hand from your thigh to the small of your back and forces you to grind on him. The movement scatters all coherent thoughts to the wind. “ _Mm_. Din—oh, _stars_ , I’ve been thinking about this for _days_.”

He leans in to kiss your jaw. “Just days?” You can hear the grin in his voice. 

“Since Canto Bight,” you tell him, and his mouth finds your earlobe and bites down. “When you told me you wouldn’t—oh, _yes_ , like that—you wouldn’t fuck me in the cockpit.” He bites down again and it tears another keening noise from your throat. 

He growls. “I’ve been thinking about this since Maldo Kreis.” 

The confession sends a frisson of desire through you. You’ve thought about this, of course, but you love hearing the Mandalorian confess that he’s thought about it too. In all the months since you were stranded together, he hadn’t stopped thinking about being inside you again. You like the idea of his desperation matching yours. 

You slide your leg higher up on his hip, bringing your aching core closer to the hard length in his pants. You need all of this clothing off. _Now_. Your fingers fumble with the hem of his shirt and he goes along willingly, twisting out of it and throwing it aside. With his shirt out of the way, you can see him with your fingers: you trace your hands through the light dusting of hair on his chest and over the raised ridges of old scars on his sides. You spread your hands out over his ribs and he sucks in a breath. 

“I’ve been thinking about this for months,” Din grits out, “and yesterday…” He trails off, his voice sounding constricted, like he’s choking on his words. 

_Yesterday?_ Oh, right, yesterday. When he got hurt and then he got hard and was fully on board with taking you against the wall of his ship. Now that you think about it, it would be nice to get an explanation for that. 

“Yesterday?” You prompt. 

He groans and rests his forehead against yours.

It’s dawning on you that he might not have an explanation for it either. It might’ve surprised him as much as it surprised you. 

“Was it the—the pain?” You tilt your head and trace your fingers down his chest, just because you like to touch his bare skin. “I mean, I asked if you like getting hurt, and…”

“No. Not the pain. The way you— _fuck_.” He’s struggling for words. It’s not easy for him to articulate anything like this; he’s not one to talk about desire or sex or, Maker forbid, _love_. Finally, he gives up and starts over. “When you touched me. You were—careful. I mean, you…” 

Realization dawns on you. “I was taking care of you.”

“Yeah.” 

“Hm.” You bite your lip and mull over that. So he doesn’t like pain, not necessarily, but he likes it when you take care of him. Interesting. A hypothesis starts to form in the back of your mind, one you have every intention of testing out. 

Your fingers find his hair again, first brushing it out of his face, then tugging a little. That produces a _strong_ reaction. His cock throbs between your bodies and he grinds his hips into you. Sparks burst in your nerves. 

“You like the idea of me taking control,” you murmur. “Of letting me take control.”

“Fuck. Oh, shit. Yes.”

_Now_ that makes sense. You’re not going to bother psychoanalyzing him, not when he’s hard for you and you’re aching for him, but it definitely makes sense. His life is difficult; you’ve known that since you met him. Everyone fears him. He has to be on guard all the time, or else he or someone he cares about will die. It’s the same thought you had when you curled up against his side on the bridge of the ship you commandeered together, months ago. He takes care of the kid, but who takes care of him? 

As much as you like it when he takes control, when he growls in your ear and tells you what to do and when to come, the idea of this— _stars_ , it makes your blood rush in your ears. 

Has he secretly thought about this? All the times you’ve pushed him around because he won’t let you help him or patched him up when he’s hurt—was he secretly thinking about you devoting the same care in bed? 

Blood rushes south so fast you feel yourself get dizzy. The Mandalorian is a lot stronger than you, so you know he’s letting you manhandle him when you push him onto his back. Fuck, you wish you could see him like this. Sprawled out underneath you, shirtless and hard as durasteel in his pants, breath coming harsh and fast as you lean down and kiss the life out of him. 

“Take your pants off.”

Fuck, he just _does_ it. He just goes along with what you say without question. That’s hot. You climb off him to give him space and he just does what you tell him to do, lifting his hips and shedding his clothes as fast as physically possible. When you settle back in his lap, you feel exactly how hard he is for you. 

His hands are on your hips, but he quickly slides them up, under your shirt, to curl around your ribcage. “You too,” he murmurs.

Your shirt hits the floor as quickly as he pants did. 

He curses, low and rough, as his hands mold to the curve of your breasts. Without the gloves, his palms are calloused and coarse on your skin. It drives you _crazy_. You bend down to kiss him and end up moaning into his mouth when he rolls your nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he says, and ducks his head to fucking _lick_ your neck. “So— _shit,_ so pretty and _perfect_. I don’t deserve you.”

When he’s not preoccupied by talking, his mouth roves down your body, first biting marks onto your neck and then your collarbone and then the sensitive skin between your breasts. It’s not fair, really, that he said he wants you to take control and now you’re the one losing it. You need to do _something_.

You drop your hand down, flattening your palm over the trail of hair under his navel. His abs flex at the contact, and you trace your hand down, down, _down_. When you palm him through his underwear, he groans and arches his back under you. _Perfect_. He’s hard and heavy in your palm when you pull his underwear down. Stars, you’re so fucking wet you can feel where you’ve soaked through your clothes onto him. 

His hips jerk again and his thick fingers find the hem of your underwear. You let him pull the fabric aside, grinding down so his cock slides between your folds. You gasp in unison, his hand tightening on your hip and your nails digging into his chest. 

“Oh, _fuck_. _Din_.”

He’s right there with you, rocking his hips up so the head of his cock bumps your clit. It’s dizzyingly good, but you need more. You’ve had plenty of nights where he made you come without fucking you, and you feel so empty. Like there’s this aching, ever-growing _need_ inside you, ever since the first night you slept together on the wreck of the _Crest_. 

“Shit. _Shit_.” He groans your name and you know he’s thinking the same thing you are. “ _Please_. Fuck, you’re going to make me fucking _come_. I need to be inside you.”

You scramble to pull off your underwear but he beats you to it. His hand curls around the swell of your hip. 

“Do you like these?”

“What?” There’s not enough blood in your brain. You can’t process what he’s saying. “No?”

The sound of fabric tearing is loud in the quiet of the night. He—fuck, he just ripped off your underwear. _Literally_. 

Sometimes you forget that this is what the Mandalorian is like: reckless and relentless in the pursuit of what he wants. And right now, what he wants is you.

He strips off his underwear while you sit back on your heels. With your eyes covered, you feel your way around with your other senses. You’re suddenly aware how loud you are; there’s no guarantee these walls are thick enough to block the sounds you’re making, but you don’t care. Actually, the thought of something hearing just turns you on more. You’re not proud of that, but _stars_ , you like the idea of people knowing what you can do to the Mandalorian, hearing every desperate noise you can draw out of him. After all, he’s _loud_. 

Din reaches for you, then, his hand cupping your cheek. “Sweet girl,” he murmurs. He brushes your hair out of your face and your breath shudders. “Let me feel you.” 

He swears again when you reach down to guide him to your entrance. He helps you, his thumb rubbing your clit, your slick dripping onto his hand. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, your body yields to the pressure until he’s sheathed inside you. 

“Shit. You’re tight.” He curses through gritted teeth. “You’re so fucking _tight_ , sweet girl.” 

His words thrill through you. It’s not easy, taking all of him like this, but it feels too good to stop. You imagine what he looks like, if you could see him. Spread out underneath you, hands gripping your hips so hard he knuckles go white, barely controlling his desire to slide home inside you. A tidal wave of emotion crashes inside you: hunger, desire, protectiveness. Things you’ve never felt before, never so intensely. The realization punches the air out of your lungs.

“Oh, fuck. _Shit_.” His voice is ragged as he groans your name. His self-control is fraying; you can hear it. “You feel so good. _Fuck_.” 

He lets you take the lead, setting a pace that’s comfortable but somehow still _devastatingly_ good. Predictably, Din loses control of his words as soon as he’s inside you. He’s a mess of bitten-off curses and praise and noises so desperate he didn’t know he could sound like that. 

“So good,” he says again, his hand curling around your hip. Then: “Fuck, you’re so—fuck—perfect, how are you so fucking _perfect?”_ Then: “Thought about this—f-fuck, every night for _months_. You h-have no _idea…_ ” 

His desperation sends sparks through you. Dimly, through the haze of arousal clouding your mind, you understand why he wanted you like this; you feel so good, control. Letting him lose his fucking mind underneath you. Knowing that he trusts you with everything he has. 

He drags you down for a kiss and grabs your ass at the same time. Your mouth falls open on a gasp as he pulls you closer and grinds up against you all at once, pressing hard against your clit. You’re close without realizing it, and the hot feeling of his mouth roving down your neck pushes you even closer to the edge. He can feel it, your inner muscles pulsing around his length. 

“Are you…” Din’s voice is raw and ragged, like he can’t catch his breath. “Are you gonna come?”

You nod blindly and hear yourself whine. Stars, you’re so _needy_ , and you’d be embarrassed if he weren’t in the same state. You gasp his name and he pulls you down again to kiss him. It’s messy and chaotic and you’re mostly moaning into his mouth as he works you closer and closer to the edge. 

He rests his forehead against yours, so _calm_ , even as you sob for him. “Come for me, sweet girl.” His voice is barely a murmur.

That gets you _every_ time. It fucking _wrecks_ you, the way he calls you _sweet girl_ like you’re precious and perfect while he does filthy things to you. Your arm falters and you collapse onto his chest as you come. He fucks you through it, slow and steady, drawing out your climax until your hand is twisting in the sheets next to his head and you’re sobbing his name over and over. 

He barely gives you a minute to come down before rolling over, pressing you into the mattress under him. He slips out in the jostle, and when you feel the head of his cock press against your sensitive core, you hiss.

He kisses you, so sweet in comparison to the way he’s shaking with the effort of holding himself back. “Okay?”

“ _Yes_.” Then he slides back into you, filling you to your limit, and you gasp. Din’s hands find yours, lacing his fingers with yours and pressing them down into the bed on either side of your head. It’s so intimate, the way he’s holding you. All you can do is hitch your leg up around his hip and take him, over and over, everything he gives you. 

You feel a second orgasm start to build, right on the heels of the first. It’s never been like this before, but then again, there’s never been anyone like Din. His grip on your hands is so tight, his breath hot and fast as he pants against your neck. 

“That’s it.” You turn your head to bury your face in his hair. He smells like sex and sweat and you swear you can feel his whole body shaking. “Fuck, Din. _Oh_ —” you cut yourself off with a reedy whine. “Just like that. Oh, _stars_ , just like that.”

“Are you—oh, _shit_ , shit— _again?”_

You nod and he growls deep in his chest. He finally lets go of one of your hands, and you immediately grab for him. Your hands find his hair, weaving through the messy curls at the back of his neck. 

“Let go, Din,” you murmur, and _pull_. 

He chokes out a groan, his hips stuttering and losing his rhythm. He pulls out just before he comes, spilling onto your stomach. It’s warm and sticky and messy and it makes you feel absolutely wild. He growls your name into your ear; the rough sound of it and the way he keeps grinding against you pushes you over _again_. Your hand tightens in his hair and it has to be hurting him, but you’re too far gone to notice. Nothing matters except how fucking _good_ this feels, knowing he’s right there with you.

☆

It’s the middle of the night, hours after you fell asleep, and the Mandalorian is still awake. His heart rate and breathing has finally slowed, having felt like he’d run across the desert by the time you were done with him. 

In the small bedroom, the only sounds he can hear are the ever-present hum of the garage and your soft, slow breaths. Din is used to being on constant watch; he finds himself assessing his surroundings even when he knows he’s safe. The guilt of putting you in danger isn’t as gut-wrenching as it was before, but it’s still there. He won’t let it happen again. He can’t. 

A soft noise draws his attention. You murmur in your sleep and clumsily throw your hand across his chest. Is it just the shadows on your face, or did you smile in your sleep when your hand finds what you’re looking for? You nestle closer to him, pressing your entire body against his side, your face resting on his chest. The blindfold is still on and you’re drooling a little. The Mandalorian isn’t one to use the word _cute_ , but that—that’s cute. 

The feeling from earlier returns, the mix of protectiveness and desire and fear and devotion. It overwhelms Din as he looks down at you, reaching for him in your sleep, nestled against his side like you want nothing else in the galaxy. 

He drops his head back on the pillow. For someone he once called a distraction, he’s realizing he can’t live without you. Is that a problem? He’s not going to worry about that right now. 

He dozes off not a minute or two later, arms still wrapped tight around you. 

**Author's Note:**

> All parts of the Cover Me series available [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2057175)
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://letterfromvienna.tumblr.com/) xoxo


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